


Alliance

by mssdare



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon, Arranged Marriage, Dom/sub Undertones, First Time, Gift Fic, M/M, Piss Play, Porn, Ritual Sex, Underage Sex, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 21:52:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8225899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssdare/pseuds/mssdare
Summary: Arthur hasn’t allowed himself to think ahead to his betrothal night with Merlin. He’s fooled around with Camelot’s whores, as all noble sons are supposed to do, in order to learn the carnal arts and quench the natural urges that need to be fulfilled. But he’s never lain with a man before.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Violette_Royale! Here’s my belated gift for you – I hope you’ll enjoy it! I was so happy to write this for you, and I’m sorry it took me so long to post it. You are a true Queen of this fandom, I love your wise, hot, kinky stories full of emotions, and I hope that you’ll write us many more!  
> EDIT: VR - I still cry knowing that fandom trolls have made you vanish from this fandom. You were a true queen of porn and no one else writes kinks like you did. Thank you for all your wonderful words and brave approach. I’m sorry you’ve been bullied. All my love.  
> NOTE TO READERS: Please, read the tags before you proceed. Warnings for: watersports (meaning: piss play) and underage and ritual sex and arranged marriage  
>   
> Many thanks to my beta - Sillygoose and to Daroh for helping me out!

The Ealdor boy sits at the very end of the long table that has been prepared for the welcoming feast. He’s wrapped in layers of layers of furs, as if Camelot’s early spring is colder than the winters in the North where he’s from. But maybe he hasn’t gotten a chance to change since his arrival with Queen Hunith and their many knights and squires who are here to accompany him during the betrothal. Or maybe he’s always cold, since he’s so pale and skinny, just as Arthur—muscular and tanned and well fed—is always a bit too hot, even during long, icy nights.

The boy, Merlin—and what a ridiculous Northern-style name that is—looks wooden, bored out of his mind. Arthur can’t really blame him. The speeches preceding the feast were elaborate and way too poetical for Arthur’s taste, and the dinner has stretched long into the night. The poor lad hasn’t even been given any decent strong mead, just watered down wine, as he’s not yet of age. Arthur has already led his first boar hunt and is allowed to join the rest of the knights in drinking his fill. He’s mature enough to wave off the servants when they offer him more mead; he already knows his limits. He sneaks a glance at Merlin instead, who’s yawning and trying to cover it up with a pout that makes his lips look puffier, more feminine. He appears even younger than he is, and it’s hard to believe that he’ll eventually be Arthur’s betrothed.

Arthur will take a wife, too, of course. Unlike Ealdor, Camelot requires the royal bloodline to produce an heir for the throne. But the most important thing now is to seal the union between these two kingdoms. Since neither King Uther of Camelot nor Queen Hunith of Ealdor has any daughters, a union between sons will have to suffice. The handfasting is traditional, anyway, a bond just as tight as any between a man and a woman.

Merlin catches Arthur staring and the corner of his lip quirks. He lifts an eyebrow in a silent question, or a dare. He looks more like a dryad than a warrior, and Arthur scowls, for he won’t be mocked by a northern brat who doesn’t even look like he’s capable of picking up a sword, not to mention _wielding_ it. How this boy will rule the North one day is hard to fathom.

Arthur wants to wipe that half-asleep, half-superior expression off the boy’s face, or at least evoke some reaction from him. He knows well that Merlin isn’t just a pretty doll, impassive and boring. He’s watched Merlin doing magic tricks for castle’s children at the beginning of the feast, looking very much as if he was truly enjoying himself. Arthur can’t remember if he’s ever done anything so immature in his entire life.

“Arthur,” Uther says jovially, leaning on the table, clearly quite inebriated already. “It’s late. You should escort our guest to his chamber so he can retire for the night. You should rest too, if you want to lead the morning hunt.”

Arthur’s scowl deepens. He doesn’t want to be Merlin’s minder, especially when all the knights are still up having fun, but he won’t dare defy Uther’s direct request.

“Yes, father.” He pushes himself up.

Reaching the boy, _Mer_ lin, isn’t an easy task. Arthur has to push past dozens of knights, all of them giddy from the feast and the mead and the dances, all of them clapping Arthur on the back and making remarks that are meant to be encouraging but are verging on rude.

They’re all referring to the betrothal night with Merlin, and Arthur hasn’t allowed himself to think ahead about it. He knows the basics, more or less—knows what goes where. He’s fooled around with Camelot’s whores, as all noble sons are supposed to do, in order to learn the carnal arts and quench the natural urges that need to be fulfilled. But he also knows that Merlin doesn’t have a hidden cunt that Arthur could stick his prick into. He’s going to worry about it later, though.

When he finally reaches Merlin, the boy is asleep, snoring lightly, with his head leaning on the back of the chair and pretty mouth opened wide. Arthur takes a deep pull of air, fighting the thoughts of Merlin’s mouth, of how pink and warm it must be, how wet.

Arthur shakes Merlin, maybe a bit too roughly, annoyed that he’s got to coddle the boy.

“Wah?” Merlin says, opening his eyes. And they’re the deepest darkest blue Arthur’s ever seen, rimmed with long, black eyelashes.

“My father asked me to escort you to your chambers. Queen Hunith has already retired for the night.”

Merlin pulls himself up to his full height. He’s taller than Arthur expected him to be. “I don’t… I don’t need to retire yet. Or to be _escorted_ anywhere.”

“Sure,” Arthur says, chuckling while he watches Merlin’s clumsy efforts to adjust his furs and rise from his chair. “Still, it’s my father’s order.”

He turns on his heel, confident that Merlin will follow. And indeed the boy does, stumbling over his overlong coat on the way. Arthur wonders if some residual effects of the wine are responsible for that, or if this is Merlin’s natural awkward gait, and something tells him it’s the latter. Usually Arthur pities those who are unfit, but maybe Merlin isn’t used to wine. Besides, his awkwardness is almost charming, in a way, so Arthur can’t really bring himself to despise him.

“Come on,” he says, wanting to hurry and return to the feast, the cheerful good company. But Merlin drags his feet, yawning, his furs pooling behind him, and Arthur has to remind himself that this boy will be powerful someday—that he’ll inherit Ealdor’s throne and together they will rule a good half of the world. Snapping at him wouldn’t be the best idea, no matter how much Merlin is stumbling while trying to keep up with Arthur’s more vigorous pace.

“Here’s you,” Arthur says when they finally reach Merlin’s chambers. Instead of vanishing behind the door, Merlin stalls. “What?” Arthur asks. “Do you need anything? Shall I call for the servants?” He’s slowly losing his patience.

Merlin frowns. “No,” he says, but he keeps stepping from one foot to another.

Arthur has it then. “What’s wrong with you? Are you going to be sick or something?”

“I have to pee,” Merlin says through gritted teeth.

Arthur shrugs. “I’m sure there’s a chamber pot underneath your bed.” When he sees Merlin’s horrified expression, he adds, a bit hesitantly, “Surely you have those in the North?”

“Yes. For _babies_ ,” Merlin exclaims. “Don’t you have lavatories here like civilised people?”

“Of course we do.” Arthur’s offended at the suggestion Camelot isn’t civilised. “But they’re on the other side of the castle, near father’s chambers.” When Merlin still doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at him, he says, “Oh, come on, Merlin. Don’t be such a maiden. If you don’t want to use the chamber pot you can piss off the castle’s battlements like all the knights do.”

Merlin looks as if he’s going to faint. “Barbarians,” he mutters.

Rage boils hot in Arthur’s blood. Camelot is among world’s most envied kingdoms, and he won’t stand for Merlin calling his people barbarians, especially not when he’s from the North where people eat _raw meat_. He says as much and Merlin closes his eyes for a moment, clearly exasperated, but then he bites his lips and emits a low whine.

He nods. “The battlements, then.” When Arthur stands still, he waves his hand. “Any time now. If you don’t mind?”

Arthur scowls and leads the way. As they’re reaching the corridor to the outside walls, Merlin keeps slowing down. There’s a pained expression on his face and he’s wincing with every step he takes.

“Why are you stalling?” Arthur asks, annoyed. It’s windy and cold out there on the battlements; the early spring air holds a bite of lingering winter.

“Uh.” Merlin winces again. “Hard to walk when you really have to pee.”

Arthur laughs and shakes his head. He tries to match Merlin’s pace, which isn’t easy since Merlin’s walking even slower now, taking each step carefully. When they finally reach the battlements, Merlin stands near the edge of the wall and waits.

“Well?” Arthur says.

“Well, I can’t do it while you’re watching, can I?”

Arthur starts to laugh again, but the idea of watching Merlin take a piss makes something hot tighten up in his chest, a weird feeling as if the world has tipped a little. He should turn around and give the boy his privacy but he’s unable to move.

He wants to watch.

As weird and inexplicable it is, since he’s never before felt the need to see any of his knights pissing, and as _wrong_ as it is, he wants to watch.

Merlin has a wrecked expression on his face—pleading and desperate, pouty and a bit fierce. It’s visible in the torchlight that flickers in the wind, and Arthur thinks darkly that he wants this expression to always be there. More so, _he_ wants to be the one who makes Merlin look like this.

The pleading shifts to despair in Merlin’s gaze and he emits a low gasp, as if something has broken inside him. It’s the most incredible sound Arthur has ever heard in his life. He stands, transfixed, watching with a growing sense of bewilderment as Merlin untangles the cords of his trousers with shaking, hasty tugs, turns away from Arthur, and then takes his prick out.

Arthur shudders when he hears the first sound of liquid hitting the stones, and his own cock suddenly stirs to life, hardening in his pants.

Merlin’s sighing with relief, almost on the verge of a moan, and Arthur has to palm his cock through his breeches because it’s too much for him to handle. He wants to close his eyes but he can’t—it would mean not seeing the expression of bliss on Merlin’s face. Gods, how those long, pale, delicate fingers that Arthur’s seen wrapped around a goblet of wine would look if they wrapped around Arthur’s dick.

When Merlin finally finishes—after what feels like ages, but isn’t long enough either—he tucks himself in and turns back to Arthur. His cheeks are flushed from embarrassment but his eyes are shining with defiance. Arthur turns too, to hide the bulge in his pants, hoping that Merlin hasn’t seen it.

They stroll back to Merlin’s chamber in silence, Arthur’s arousal not subsiding nor making walking any easier. He leaves Merlin in his chamber and hurries to his own on the other side of the castle, almost tripping on the stairs in his haste to do something about his hard-on. He spits on his hand and wraps it around his cock as soon as he closes his door, and it takes just a few strokes before he’s coming into his cupped fist, to the memory of Merlin and the small sound Merlin made when he started pissing.

*

At the first blink of dawn everyone’s gathered in the yard, knights sitting straight and proper on their horses. Not even Gwaine looks too hungover from the previous night’s festivities. Arthur’s got a slight headache from the lingering effects of the mead, but he won’t show weakness in front of his knights, even if Uther’s not here to assess his behaviour. At least the crisp morning air is somewhat helpful to his composure.

Merlin is the last to arrive, wrapped in a fur coat again, yawning, and even paler in the morning light. He’s trotting up on a fat gelding, looking like a sack of potatoes, clearly unused to horse-riding. How on earth would an heir to Ealdor get to the age for handfasting without learning to ride properly?

Arthur kicks the sides of his horse, raising his hand in the signal for departure. He’s irritated with Merlin’s tardiness and his general state of being… unfit.

“Try to keep up,” he barks over his shoulder upon leaving the gates.

Frost cracks underneath the horses’ hooves as they ride towards the woods, and Arthur’s breath comes in thick white jets of fog. Game will be scarce at this time of the year, but perhaps they might spot a boar searching for food in a forest clearing. Still, there’s quite a ride ahead of them, and as they canter on, Arthur’s mind wanders to the events of the previous night. He can’t help but fantasize about Merlin having to pee again. Arthur can show him how the knights do that in the forest, maybe lead Merlin to a tree or even help Merlin to untie the knots of his breeches that have tangled during the ride.

Nothing of the sort happens, of course. But Arthur feels guilty about his thoughts and he clenches his jaw each time he looks behind to see if Merlin’s keeping up.

The hunt is just as fruitless as expected, and Arthur’s mood blackens by the hour as they push through the thickest part of the woods, where the still-leafless trees loom over them like crumpled bodies and the moss smells rotten. He signals the group to head back to the castle before the sun is even halfway to noon.

When they arrive back at the stables, Arthur throws his gear at a squire, making the boy stumble. Arthur frowns at the squire and it doesn’t escape him how the boy is probably Merlin’s age. Arthur’s can’t remember the squire’s name but he’s seen him before, wrestling Southern-style with other would-be-knights, half naked and glistening with oil. He remembers that the boy is lightly haired, the white strip of the loincloth exposing nearly bare flesh around his cock and small balls. Arthur wonders if Merlin’s the same. Or is he dark and curly there, the shade of his pubes matching the black waves that frame his sharp cheekbones?

He needs to run to his chambers to do something about those unwanted thoughts. It’s a quick release, and he curses Merlin and those cheekbones and slender fingers as he comes.

There’s a feast yet again in the night, albeit a little more modest, with cold meats, cheese and baked apples. There’s music, mead, and wine too, but after the excess of the previous night everyone’s too tired to give in to the feasting. Somehow Uther’s in good spirits, talking to Queen Hunith in a way that’s almost charming.

Merlin’s absent.

“Would you like me to go check on him?” Arthur asks the queen.

“Thank you.” Hunith nods, exchanging a look with Uther that makes Arthur wonder if he’s out of line asking about Merlin. “He said he wasn’t feeling well.”

The castle halls outside the dining chamber are very quiet and dark. The cold staircases smell of bread baking for the morning, tar from the burning torches, and mold, ever-present within the walls, especially pungent in the cold months.

Arthur stops at the door to Merlin’s chamber, unsure whether he should knock or just barge in, since it’s his castle after all and he _is_ the prince. He decides on knocking, and after a short while he hears a grunt, then a thumping sound followed by rumbling as if someone has tripped over a basket of apples and spilled them all over the floor. Then, muffled, “Come in.”

Merlin looks flushed. His hair’s a mess, his cheeks reddened, and mouth opened as he breathes hard.

“Is everything all right?” Arthur asks, taking in the mess in the chamber and Merlin’s rumpled appearance.

Then he’s the one blushing because for once Merlin’s out of his layers of furs and wearing only a pair of loose pants and a thin shirt that is half-opened, revealing Merlin’s slender form, his milky-pale chest, a dot of a freckle, and a peak of one tiny rosy nipple.

Arthur swallows. He clears his throat and swallows again because his mouth has gone dry.

“Yes,” Merlin says. “All’s fine.” He doesn’t _look_ fine, though, twitching nervously and shifting from one foot to another.

Arthur draws in a breath. “Don’t tell me you have to go again.” He tries to laugh, fighting the hoarseness in his voice.

“I…” Merlin says. “Yes.”

“You can’t go alone to the battlements in the dark. You’ll trip and break your neck.”

It’s true. The battlements aren’t well lit, and Merlin, not knowing the castle well, might fall.

“Will I?” Merlin bites his lip. He needs to stop annoying Arthur so much.

“Yes,” he says. “Do you want me to accompany you?”

When Merlin looks up at Arthur from under those fringes of lashes there’s a sparkle of mischief in his eyes. For a moment he resembles an elf more than a human boy.

“Please,” he says.

This one word unravels that hot and dark feeling in Arthur’s stomach and he doesn’t want to break eye contact with Merlin, but he turns and says, “Follow me,” making it more of an order than a polite request. Merlin’s soft footsteps behind him are somehow obedient, urging that dark thing inside Arthur to grow and grow until Arthur’s shivering in the darkness. He tries to clear his head, and he expects that one whip of the cold wind outside should help with that, but the air is unexpectedly balmy, the night thick with the promise of actual spring, and the stars are hidden behind clouds hanging low in the sky. Arthur stops and turns around, abruptly enough for Merlin to stumble and crash into him.

“Careful,” Arthur says, grabbing Merlin’s arm to steady him. It’s slim. So slender that Arthur could probably encircle it with his palm. He doesn’t let Merlin go even though he doesn’t need support anymore.

There’s a distant rumble of a thunder and the wind picks up, blowing Merlin’s hair into his eyes.

It’s too dark to see Merlin’s expression when Arthur lifts his hand to push those locks away from Merlin’s face. In the half-darkness he can only see Merlin’s eyes gleaming like shiny stones in a cave. Arthur lets his hand slip down Merlin’s face, tracing the shape of those cheekbones, those lips—soft and plump and parting underneath Arthur’s fingertips as if with a promise of something more. Arthur fights the urge to push his thumb into the slick warmth of Merlin’s mouth, and takes his hand back as if he’s been burned.

He takes a step away from Merlin.

“Go on.” His voice is firm, an order again, to cover up how flustered he is.

Without a second of hesitation, following Arthur’s order as if he were a knight under Arthur’s command, Merlin unlaces his pants and pushes them down. In the dim light not much is visible—only the pale shape of Merlin’s dick in contrast to the dark patch of hair between his legs. The knowledge that Merlin is indeed not hairless anymore, not like the squire Arthur’s compared Merlin to, is like a hidden treat, like a ripe, sweet fruit. Arthur wishes he could trace the shape of that darker patch just the way he’s traced Merlin’s lips. He wishes he could feel the soft curls and inhale the scent of him.

“Go on,” he says again.

Merlin falters, maybe ashamed, or maybe waiting for some other encouragement, and Arthur reaches for him again, pressing on Merlin’s arm to make him turn around. When he does, Arthur steps closer, so close that their bodies are almost aligned and there’s no way Merlin doesn’t feel the shape of Arthur’s arousal against his backside, hard as a rock in his pants.

Arthur reaches around Merlin, waiting for any clue that he’s not welcome to do what he’s about to do, and when it doesn’t come—not even an intake of breath, Merlin still as if frozen against Arthur’s chest—Arthur slides his hand down, finally feeling the soft curls and then wrapping his fingers around Merlin’s dick.

Merlin shudders and Arthur almost gasps because the velvety-smooth texture of Merlin’s skin feels so fucking amazing underneath Arthur’s callused palm. Merlin’s half-hard, fattening fast in Arthur’s grip, and it’s the weirdest and most exhilarating feeling to have someone else’s dick grow in Arthur’s hand like this. He can tell that Merlin’s quite big—surely just as long as Arthur is when he’s aroused and maybe even thicker too.

Arthur shouldn’t do it. Firstly, because he shouldn’t be close with Merlin before the betrothal night, and secondly, because something about it is… wrong. He doesn’t even know why but it _must_ be, with how forbidden and good it feels.

He slides his hand up and down Merlin’s shaft. Merlin gasps and leans back, letting Arthur feel his full body weight.

“Piss now.” Arthur yearns to feel Merlin spilling over his fingers.

“I can’t,” Merlin whispers. “Not like this.”

“I’ll help you.” Arthur doesn’t know what makes him so reckless; anyone could come here and see them, and what would they make of the sight?

He tugs at Merlin’s cock, wanking him fast and rough as he would do to himself, and it takes just a few passes of his hand before Merlin’s coming, moaning, mewling like a kitten, loud, too loud, so Arthur clamps his other hand over Merlin’s mouth.

Merlin’s still shaking with the aftershocks, but for Arthur this isn’t quite enough—he needs more. He says, “Now piss. Go on. Now, Merlin.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the command or that he’s called Merlin by his name, but Merlin whimpers again, his cock jerking in Arthur’s grip. Then slowly, as if painfully, the piss trickles out of his dick. Arthur presses himself to Merlin’s back and the pressure it gives his own cock is enough to set him off. Even in the midst of his orgasm he’s aware of the warm liquid on his fingers, the fait smell of urine in the air. He wants to lick his fingers clean, taste Merlin on himself. He presses tighter to Merlin’s back, letting the shudder of his release be felt, shameless for a while, breathing hard with his mouth open, panting onto Merlin’s neck. Then everything’s he’s done gets to him and he pulls back abruptly. He should apologise and retreat, but that would make the whole situation even more embarrassing, so he decides on pretending all of it was intentional and not a moment of crazed desire clouding his better judgement.

“Are you done?” he asks, his voice clipped.

“Are you?” Merlin says in return, and Arthur’s sure there’s that small and somewhat insolent half-smile on Merlin’s face.

He wipes his hands on his breeches instead of licking them clean like he’s yearned for and starts walking away. Merlin follows silently.

They part at the door to Merlin’s chambers, without a word or even a glance.

Outside, the rain finally breaks.

***

Arthur’s distracted, taking blows that he’d normally be able to parry without difficulty. Training after the first rain of spring isn’t the most agreeable activity; the ground’s muddy and slippery from the night’s deluge. But this isn’t the reason Arthur lacks concentration. He keeps glancing to the archery track where Merlin, instead of shooting, is frolicking with the cook’s kids—throwing wooden balls in the mud and trying to get them as close as possible to the red apple that’s placed at the end of the track. There’s something odd about the game; the kids’ balls land much closer to the apple than they should, judging by the throw, but Arthur can’t see where the glitch is.

What he can see, though, is Merlin’s slim arms, bare in the weak sunlight, just as pale as Merlin’s face, but dotted here and there with small dark moles.

“Need a break, Princess?” Gwaine, who’s been sparring with Arthur, wipes his face with the back of his hand and looks pointedly towards Merlin.

“No,” Arthur says, but he does call for a rest a moment later. He needs to catch his breath, maybe drink some cold water.

To his right there are happy squeals; the cook’s children are splitting their reward in four pieces, each of them getting a bit of the apple.

“He’s pretty,” Gwaine says, glancing in the direction Arthur’s gaze.

Arthur shrugs. He wants to deny he’s noticed, but it’s pointless to argue with Gwaine. He’s blushing and can only hope that it can be attributed to the exertion of training.

Gwaine leans closer. “Do you know what to do in bed with a man?”

“What?” Arthur asks, although he knows perfectly well what Gwaine’s talking about.

“I’ve seen you at Margareta’s house. I know you can please a woman, but… have you ever used the back door?”

Arthur looks up. Now he’s lost for real. “The back?”

“Y’know.” Gwaine makes a gesture indicating his backside. “The _little_ hole.”

The way he says it makes Arthur hot all over when he thinks about it—about the private little hole, and how Merlin’s must be tight and rosy, so small and innocent.

“I can bet he’s got the sweetest little hole. All tight. Unused. I can’t say I’m not jealous of you—“

“Enough!” Arthur barks. He’s not going to sit and listen to Gwaine’s filthy remarks.

Gwaine puts his hands in the air, placating. “I’m just saying. You’ll need oil and a lot patience to make it good for him on your betrothal night.”

“You needn’t be concerned about it,” Arthur says, annoyed and terrified, wanting more advice because he has no idea what Gwaine’s talking about and yes, he suddenly wants the night to be good for Merlin. Instead of storming out of the training area, like he’d like to, he grabs his sword and flings it around and around in his palm.

“So, you’ve done… that,” he finally says. It’s more of a statement than a question.

“Mhm.” Gwaine nods with a smile and thank the gods without a leering glance towards Merlin. “Such tight little asses usually need a lot of slow opening up with your fingers. Or a tongue, if you’re so inclined.” He laughs when he sees Arthur’s perplexed expression. “It’s really not as dirty as it sounds. And you may soak in a bath first if you’re squeamish. It’s… Well, you’ll see.”

Arthur frowns with a silent warning. He definitely won’t do _that_. He’ll be careful with his fingers, though, and he will ask Gaius for a suitable oil.

“I’d show you. Practice with you, if you like?” Gwaine’s impertinent enough to make Arthur stand up abruptly with rage.

“Break’s over.”

When he charges at Gwaine later it’s with so much anger Gwaine’s no match for his skills. He doesn’t even notice when Merlin vanishes from the training ground.

 

***

There’s only a modest dinner in his father’s private hall that night, and Arthur’s excused as soon as the meats are gone. Uther and Queen Hunith are going over some last details before the following day’s tournament and then the betrothal itself, the culmination of three days of festivities. Dusk has yet to cover the grounds, and Arthur invites Merlin to accompany him to the lower Castle so he can have a glance at the surroundings.

“Aren’t you worried?” Merlin asks as they’re walking down the road, greeted with low bows by the people they encounter.

There’s something soft about Merlin tonight, as if he’s lost his armour.

“What about?”

“That we won’t like each other. We don’t even know each other, really.”

Arthur shrugs. He’s not concerned about it. It’s not like they have to live together for longer than a few weeks a year when they visit each other to maintain and strengthen the alliance. And they don’t need to share a bed after the betrothal night.

“Well,” Merlin says, “I guess I’ll be spending most of my time in Ealdor anyway, so it doesn’t matter if you hate me, but—“

Arthur stops, stunned. “Why would I hate you?”

“Well, look at me.” Merlin gestures to himself, and Arthur is at a loss because there’s not a part of Merlin that he could even imagine not liking.

“What about you?” he asks.

“We don’t have anything in common. I’m not a warrior, like you.”

Arthur bursts out laughing, and Merlin shoots him a wounded look.

“No,” Arthur says. “You’re not. But.” He looks up in the sky, trying to find words that won’t insult Merlin. “Not everyone is born to be a knight, I guess.” It still doesn’t sound right.

“You mean there are lower forms of life out there, too?” Merlin asks, glancing at him teasingly.

“Right.” Arthur smiles again, bumping Merlin’s shoulder lightly.

They keep walking in silence, but Arthur can feel there’s something still bothering Merlin. It’s odd how attuned he seems to Merlin’s needs, so quickly. After just a couple of days together, it’s as if he’s been bewitched.

“What?” he asks, and waits for the answer.

“I guess I’m worried that I won’t meet your expectations. In bed too.”

At that Arthur starts laughing again, and Merlin turns around, affronted, and walks back to the castle. Arthur follows him at his usual pace, and he reaches Merlin just before he’s about to enter the gates.

“Merlin, wait.”

Merlin stops for a moment and Arthur wants to tell Merlin that he shouldn’t worry, that it’s on Arthur’s to please him, but then he says nothing at all and just watches as Merlin vanishes across the courtyard and up the stairs.

They don’t see each other again that night, but Arthur keeps thinking about all the things that Gwaine has told him. He wonders if Merlin’s really that small and tight. He tries to decide if he’d really like to lick Merlin’s ass. Then he thinks of the way Merlin’s cock felt in Arthur’s hand as he emptied himself, piss mixing with seed on Arthur’s skin, and Arthur cannot help but take his own aching dick in his hand and bring himself off again, angry and ashamed but still unable to forget Merlin’s relieved moan on the battlements that first night.

*

In the morning Arthur wins all but one fight in the tournament, losing only a wrestling match to Percival, who’s more of a tree than a man, and losing to him is no shame.

The evening greets them again with dark clouds and rumblings of thunder. Servants and maids are busy with the last minute arrangements for the betrothal, and Merlin’s absent. Arthur can only hope he hasn’t scared Merlin away with his odd behaviour.

Despite feeling tired after the tournament, Arthur finds himself restless. Even soaking in a scented bath doesn’t quell his nerves. He heads to Gaius’s tower as soon as he’s dried off. The old man is busy making some kind of ugly-smelling concoction, as usual.

“How may I help you, my lord?” Gaius asks, his eyebrow going up in an inquisitive way that makes Arthur suspect that Gaius knows exactly what Arthur’s here for.

Arthur scowls, his awkwardness making him angry.

“I was thinking about the night…” he starts, then bites his lip and feels a hot flush rising on his cheeks.

“Yes?” Gaius asks.

“If I need…” Arthur tries again.

“Something for virility, sire?” Gaius’s brow is doing some elaborate dance on his forehead, and Arthur can’t focus.

“What? No.” If he thought he was blushing before, now his face is _on flames_. “I meant, a hangover medicament.”

Gaius looks as if he’s going to say something, but in the end he just nods and hands Arthur a sour-smelling potion that Arthur throws over the castle wall as soon as he leaves Gaius’s chambers.

He’s irritated later too, when the squires come over to his chamber and dress him up in the chainmail that has been cleaned and polished meticulously after the fights. He’s about to leave his room when Uther barges in, beaming.

“I can’t believe that old witch finally agreed to our terms.” He approaches Arthur and claps him hard on his back. “Now, just keep her little bastard happy and Ealdor’s throne will be yours eventually.”

Arthur stiffens. Perhaps, deep down in his heart, he’s known from the beginning that this was what it was all about, that the alliance isn’t happening to preserve the peace and good relations between the two countries, that in fact it’s a cunning way of gaining new lands without bloodshed. But still, to hear it out loud, to hear what his father thinks of Queen Hunith, who’s been nothing but just and kind, like a mother Arthur hasn’t got a chance to know—it’s all deeply upsetting. He knows he can’t do much about it, though, so he just nods.

“I’ll do my best not to disappoint.”

“You’d better.” Uther laughs, somewhat dirtily, and claps Arthur again.

*

Walking down the main hall aisle, full of familiar people smiling at Arthur, should calm his nerves a little, but on the dais in front of the thrones stands Merlin, like a maiden to be wed. He’s dressed in some elaborate Northern-style robe, wrapped tightly around his slender frame with dozens of tiny clasps and laces, hugging his waist and falling at mid-thigh to reveal silky leggings underneath. It’s dark blue and quite stunning, but Arthur wishes the coat didn’t have such a high and tightly closed collar so Merlin’s long neck would be visible.

The betrothal is held in the castle but is presided over by a Druid, which is a huge compromise on Uther’s part and was negotiated during long talks and letters exchanged with Queen Hunith. The Old Religion hasn’t been welcomed in Camelot since Arthur’s birth, and the betrothal with Ealdor’s future king is going to put an end to this conflict.

They drink from the same cup and spill the rest of the wine for the spirits; they let their hands be fastened with silk ties and say the vows. Merlin’s hand feels clammy and cold in Arthur’s grip, but his voice is steady as he repeats after the Druid.

Later, they sit at the head of the table in the dining hall, receiving gifts and good wishes and sharing wine.

It’s getting late when Queen Hunith stands, walks over to them, kisses Merlin on the forehead, and leans to do the same to Arthur.

“Be good to my boy,” she says softly so no one but Arthur can hear. “I told him the same. You’re my son now, too.”

He wants to answer that yes, he will be good, but she’s already pulling back, caressing his hair, so he nods, swallowing hard over an odd feeling—of having a mother touch him like that, and of a responsibility he hasn’t felt before. He’s always felt responsible for the people of Camelot and his own knights too, but this is different, personal and huge.

They’re escorted by the Druid to Arthur’s chambers then, who presents them with something wrapped in a folded cloth and then leaves with the last blessing. The rooms are decorated with a special golden-threaded tapestry and lit with dozens of candles. There are apples, imported grapes, and wine on the table, but Merlin shakes his head when Arthur offers him more wine. Arthur pours himself half a glass and drinks it in one huge gulp, suddenly nervous.

Merlin stands in the middle of the room, looking uncomfortable and stiff in his wedding clothes. He looks cold without his furs, even though a fire blazes hot in the brazier.

“I…” Arthur says. “We don’t have to do anything. We can just tell them in the morning that our bond is complete.”

Merlin snorts. “As if the Druids wouldn’t know,” he says.

They stand still for a while, then Merlin shifts from one foot to the other in a surprisingly familiar manner, and Arthur’s breath hitches.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t…?”

Merlin shakes his head. “I thought you could help.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, his mouth dry enough that he considers pouring himself more wine. “I would.”

“But we can’t go to the battlements just yet.”

“No, we can’t. Not before…” Arthur agrees.

The air around them shifts.

“Pot?” Arthur suggests, even if he knows the answer. He can see Merlin’s cheeks reddening. He shakes his head no.

“We’ll be quick, then,” Arthur says. And then we’ll go to the battlements, when the ritual is complete.”

Merlin sits on the bed and starts undoing the laces of his robe. Arthur’s glad his chainmail is at least easy to take off. He walks over to Merlin and extends his hand.

“Let me?”

“I’m not a maiden to be undressed.” Merlin huffs but allows Arthur to loosen the strings of his laces.

He’s got a white shirt underneath, and when that’s off too, Arthur can finally have a view of Merlin’s bare flat chest, pink nipples, and scarce hair trailing down his stomach.

Arthur sheds his clothing too and stands in front of Merlin. He’s never been modest or self-conscious about his body. He’s well-toned and tanned, fit from training, and he knows he looks good nude. It’s also not the first time he’s been hard in front of another person, but he still feels a bit out of his element when he climbs on the bed next to Merlin and tugs on Merlin’s leggings.

Merlin’s hard, his cock just as big as Arthur felt the other night. Arthur slides his hand up Merlin’s thigh, but he’s at loss for what to do next, even when Merlin parts his legs for him.

“Fuck,” he says, remembering. “We don’t have. We need…”

“Uh,” Merlin says, reaching over to the discarded bundle that the Druid has given them and producing a small crystal vial from the cloth. “This?” He pushes the vial into Arthur’s hand.

“Yes.” Arthur takes it from Merlin’s hand, uncorks it, and pours some of the scented oil onto his palm. The “open him up on your fingers” advice seems clear enough, and he reaches between Merlin’s legs and then behind Merlin’s balls to find the crease and the puckered tiny hole. Merlin makes a sound that’s half a gasp and half a whimper, and he hitches his hips up, directing Arthur’s fingers to where he wants them.

“You’ve…” Arthur whispers in awe when his fingertip slips without much resistance into the tight heat of Merlin’s body.

“I, um… I prepared myself. A little,” Merlin says. And the possessiveness that rises inside Arthur at the thought of Merlin touching himself this way is like a flame. He starts pumping his finger, the way he’s done with girls, rubbing the smooth walls inside Merlin’s body. Then he adds another finger.

“Gods,” Merlin gasps. His voice sounds strained, as if he’s in pain.

“Good or bad gods?” Arthur asks.

“Good. Good.” Merlin writhes a bit. “It’s just that I really need to _go_ , and this is making me more…” He bites his lips and hisses when Arthur pushes yet another finger inside him.

“Just do it. Do it, Arthur, please, quickly, and then we’ll go to the battlements.”

There’s no way Arthur’s going to do it fast. There’s no way he’s going to _fit_ inside, he thinks, as he presses the thick head of his cock to Merlin’s hole that’s nothing like a girl’s wet slit. It’s a struggle to push inside, and when the head of his cock finally slips inside it’s so tight, so, so tight, almost uncomfortably so.

Merlin’s breathing hard, his eyes pinched shut. He’s biting his plump lips again.

“All right?” Arthur asks through gritted teeth, restraining himself from an urge to thrust forward.

Instead of answering Merlin wraps his legs around Arthur and digs his heels hard into Arthur’s ass.

“Do it. Do it. Do it,” he chants.

Bottoming out is bliss. But it also feels as if Arthur’s been robbed of something fundamental—breath, sanity, his future. He can’t say.

Merlin cries out with pleasure, and when Arthur pulls back to thrust again he whines, a long, high whine that intensifies with each push of Arthur’s hips. And Arthur’s suddenly not sure he’s not hurting him, but between their bodies Merlin’s hard, spilling drops of precome onto his stomach and urging Arthur forward.

“How does it feel?” Arthur asks instead of inquiring again if Merlin’s all right.

Merlin’s eyes open, and when he glances up with his lips parted, flush high on his cheeks and chest, hair messed from all the thrashing around, he looks wrecked and gorgeous.

“You,” Merlin says in between thrusts. “You need to try. Feel. This.” He stops talking then and meets Arthur’s thrusts halfway. “So good.”

Arthur needs to push deeper, fuck Merlin harder, but as he presses more of his weight onto Merlin, trapping Merlin’s cock between their slippery bodies, Merlin cries out again and comes, his mouth open wide and cock jerking hard, spilling hotly on their stomachs. Arthur thinks he could come just from the view, but maybe because of all the wine he’s drunk he still needs a moment and he keeps thrusting, fucking Merlin through his release. Merlin’s moans turn into something more violent and desperate, and tears spill from his eyes. Arthur starts to pull back but Merlin clenches hard around him.

“Don’t. You need to come inside me to complete the ritual.”

And Arthur does, pushing in and out in jerky movements, pressing hard onto Merlin, who’s outright sobbing now. And Arthur, blinded by the force of his orgasm, doesn’t know what this is all about until he has a sudden revelation. He puts his hand on Merlin’s abdomen and presses down, using his still persistent erection to pump into Merlin even though he’s way too sensitive now.

“I can’t!” Merlin cries.

“Yes, you can,” Arthur says, pressing his palm even harder, and then the trickle of piss comes out of Merlin’s cock. He’s spilling, hotly and messily between them, and evoking something in Arthur, something like a second release, making Arthur shudder with his whole body while his thrusts falter and finally stop.

He collapses then in the whole wet mess there, feeling the last drops of hot liquid wet his thighs.

They catch their breath together, their bodies slowly cooling down.

When Merlin starts wriggling underneath Arthur, Arthur startles out of the first shallow sleep and pulls away, lying next to Merlin. They’re dirty and wet, and Merlin looks ruined and gorgeous, as if he’s about to fall apart any second.

Arthur reaches over and pushes Merlin’s hair out of his eyes, as if this could help with anything, then scoots closer and kisses Merlin on the lips. It starts slow and warm—a consolation kiss, a way of showing Merlin that it’s okay, actually much more than okay. But soon enough they’re grinding their returning erections into each other yet again, and everything’s sticky and very wet when Merlin sneaks his hand down, wraps his fingers around them both, and tugs hard until they are both gasping into each other mouths and coming again.

They strip the bed later and spread a blanket over the wet spot, then climb back under the heavy silk duvet. Arthur pulls Merlin closer.

“Will you stay?” he asks, even though he knows it’s impossible—Merlin has his duties in Ealdor and can’t abandon his own people. At best they’ll be able to see each other two or three times per year. But he asks anyway.

“Yes,” Merlin says, and as false a promise as it is, it sounds truer than any vow they exchanged earlier during the ceremony.


End file.
